bones of me
by WhatsABriard
Summary: <html><head></head>She is her best self in the face of a challenge, and it has been so long since she has been challenged. 5x03 follow-up. Now a series of loosely connected S5 drabbles.</html>
1. Chapter 1

_Spoilers for 5x03 and heavy angst ahoy. The muse wants what the muse wants._ _A little exercise in the art of writing which I haven't done in a million ages. I knew this storyline would do the trick. _

**the bones of me**

On the arm of a stranger, she sees, with perfect clarity, what her life used to be.

The shimmer of a ballroom in the twinkle of his eye.

The hint of a long-forgotten courting waltz in the note of approval as he encourages her to continue.

Adventure, she recalls; a brave explorer. A buccaneer, proudly invading a foreign land.

She cannot help but bask in warmth of his attention - she is once again a coltish and gracelessly coquettish youth - and the rush of desire she feels is reflected in his gaze.

She blooms in the light of attention. She is her best self in the face of a challenge, and it has been so long since she has been challenged.

Heat suffuses her cheeks when he offers another unsolicited bit of flattery, but she is chilled by the realization of how much she has missed _this_.

This simple, uncomplicated state of being.

Of being wanted.

The sharp pang of loss stops her short and instantly banks her enthusiasm.

_Goodnight_, she hastily bids her suitor (she almost giggles at the outlandish thought) and rushes indoors.

She wants to go home, but is instead surprised to find home waiting for her in the parlor.

She longs to ask him if he recalls their first dance. The way she placed a hand on his arm as she took a slight (theatrical) stumble on the steps and careened into him breathlessly. They way they spoke for hours about everything and nothing. The nights he confided in her his fear of inadequacy for the life they stood to inherit one day. The future he painted of them ruling together, side by side. She, his treasured advisor and friend. He, her husband and dearest companion.

Instead the desire to reminisce withers at his icy reception. The brittleness of his rebuke rattles her bones and the flush of youth regained under the regard of a stranger recedes at once. In the harsh parlor lights she sees, with perfect clarity, what her life has _become_.

What _they_ have become.

Once upon a time, she would have held her ground and held him accountable. Once upon a time, she would have eased him through his childish display of temper to a mutually beneficial conclusion.

Once upon a time, she saw the point. Once upon a time, he saw _her_.

Instead she turns and heads to bed alone.


	2. Chapter 2

_This is moot now that 5x06 has aired but I'm going to go ahead and post it so I have a place to keep all these little ficlets together. _

If she is surprised to find him sitting alone in their room, barefoot and lost in thought, she gives no hint. Instead she sidles past, intent on keeping up the icy silence that has grown over the last few days. Weeks. Months.

_for a brief moment her horror is eclipsed by the knowledge that Robert is there, battling for her honor. then shame eclipses guilt eclipses joy eclipses horror. bricker leaves with some words that she doesn't hear because she is watching her husband's face collapse. his shoulders are slumped when he walks through the door to his dressing room._

His fingers catch the ephemeral silk of her sleeve then band loosely around her wrist. She offers no resistance as he gathers her into his arms, pulling her to rest across his knees.

_he doesn't sleep in his dressing room. he replays the scene over and over, until his stomach turns like sour milk and he nearly retches. he has come to a bitter conclusion and it fills his belly with vile. he caused this. he drove his wife into the arms of a dandy. the backhand to bricker's cheek was felt in his own gut and he continues to punish himself through his wife. she returns his bitterness with kindness and anger is the only thing he feels. _

He knows she is holding her breath from her rigid stillness even as he curls his face against her throat.

She smells of orchids and powder tinged with the unmistakable whiff of hurt.

His mumbled words burn across her collarbone; his injured hand curls against her hip.

_I'm sorry. I love you. Don't leave me. Save me._

She begins to cry.


	3. Chapter 3

Cora doesn't bother to hide the tremor of her lips as Robert stalks back into her - their - room. Despite the seriousness of the situation, she cannot help but be amused at how thoroughly he resembles a petulant child at this moment. His fists are tightly balled as he takes stiff steps from the door to the bed. It swamps her again, as it has so often in recent months, how much she loves this man. Every stubborn, silly, idiotic inch of him.

They have lived and loved for too long for him to be able to deny the truth of her words in his dressing room. It was a low tactic, pointing out indiscretions better left forgotten, but she doesn't regret it. She knows it irritates him to be caught out in that way, evident in his rough toss of the duvet.

"I'm still angry." He says to the wall, seating himself on the furthest edge of bed with his back to her.

"As am I." She responds simply and is rewarded by the swivel of his head on his shoulders. Exasperation tempers her amusement and she meets his gaze with an arched brow.

"And what do you possibly have to be angry about?" He huffs. She wants to slap him, take his lapels in her fists and shake him. But the unmistakable twinge of hurt in his words stills her. They are so adept at wounding each other, often without even realizing it. She watches blandly as he stuffs his feet beneath the blankets and curls on his side away from her. The desire to withhold, to turn the other direction and go to sleep is strong. But she refuses to let him pout his way out of a reconciliation.

"Would you like a list?" Cora doesn't usually care to fight. With Robert it is an exercise in futility. More often than not he comes around on his own. So she slides across the expanse of their bed and buries her face against his back. One hand slips over his stiff form to press against his chest. For the first time in weeks, she breathes deeply and is surrounded by the smell of him. Her fingers swirl in the cotton of his nightshirt, tangling briefly with the buttons before coming to rest against his abdomen. She won't let him slip away but holds on until some of the tension eases from his shoulders.

Satisfied that detente has been reached, she rolls away from him and is pleasantly surprised to hear him follow her. Strong arms scoop beneath her and pull her to his chest and it is his turn to bury his face against her.

"I was jealous." His mumbled statement is strained, hot puffs of breath brushing over the sensitive hair at the base of her neck. She shivers in his arms and clutches at the hands across her middle.

"I was flirting." She shrugs helplessly. "I didn't think he would take it so seriously."

"Oh my dear," Robert breathes, and she is relieved to hear the note of amusement. "You always have underestimated your ability to enchant men."

"Don't be ridiculous, Robert."

"Don't you be." He unearths his face from her fragrant hair and rests his chin on her shoulder. "I spent the first five years of our marriage in unending jealousy over every man who came into this house. You bewitched them all. Bricker, poor sod, he never stood a chance."

"I didn't want him." She told herself she refused to feel guilty, but there was some culpability in her actions. "It was nice to be appreciated for my mind."

"I've behaved terribly." It is true, but she did not expect so frank an admission.

"So have I."

"We are foolish, the two of us."

"We are."

"Do you forgive me?" His lips brush the nape of her neck and she feels her muscles loosen instantly.

"If you forgive me." She wants to turn in his arms, to look into those impossible eyes of his. She longs to kiss away the lines of doubt she herself carved into his forehead and ease the disgruntled set of his shoulders. But he his holding her firmly against his chest and his knee is slipping between her thighs.

They always did have a knack for making up, she thinks.

"What say you, My Cora?" He whispers, emphasizing the 'my' while his fingers plucking at her night dress. "Shall we knock over a lamp?"

She laughs.


End file.
